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Monday

Quiet Soup

I am carrying a ziplock bag of soup on the subway, leftovers from dinner church at St. Lydia's. Delicious as dinner was, I think I am going to spill the soup. No, I'm going to spray it, squeeze the bag of butternut squash soup all over these kids on the subway. The kids with crazy hair and ridiculous glasses who keep shouting.

Shut up kids, I am reading my book. Yes, I know you are in high school and it is spring break and you are happy. I am happy too. I am happy after church, happy after spending time with my friends and after eating this delicious soup and happy reading my book, Olive Kitteridge. This book is full of the ache of life and the subtle tension of everyday existence. If you, spring break kids, would shut up, I would read it to you. Maybe then you'd know that you don't have to be loud to say something important, and you don't have to be noisy to make your presence felt. Your hair is making your presence felt pretty much all on it's own, anyway.

When I was in high school I was not like you. I was a quiet kid. I wore polo shirts and jeans. I spiked my hair up for awhile, but generally I avoided drawing attention to myself. It took some time to get to know me, but I sometimes I liked being a mystery. You, kids in skinny jeans, aren't exactly a mystery. Was I boring? Maybe I was a little boring, but you wouldn't want to throw a bag of butternut squash soup at me, either.